


Thorokyne

by Paarthurnax



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-06 14:24:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4225212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paarthurnax/pseuds/Paarthurnax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is based on the 100 theme challenge by Momma-Ran on DeviantArt so I decided to use the Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim for my take on it.</p><p>This story is centered around my Dovahkiin; a Dunmer native to the Ashlands of Vvardenfell by the name of Thorokyne. Each chapter will be a stand alone one-shot, however, they will all loosely be linked because of common factors so I'm putting them in a single story.</p><p>WARNING! This story is a work in progress, and updates may be chaotic at best. Read at your own risk!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. #1. Name

**Author's Note:**

> Some things to keep in mind with this particular story...
> 
> * I am a huge fan of Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind and the way they portrayed the Dunmer, rudeness and all, and have reflected my character after that, not the watered down versions in Oblivion and parts of Skyrim. (Neloth's return kind of redeemed some of Skyrim in my eyes regarding the Dunmer, though. lol.)
> 
> * The lore of the Elder Scrolls absolutely fascinates me and you may see this come into play.
> 
> Enjoy!

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**Thorokyne**

**~ #1. Name ~**

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Ralof of Riverwood could never be accused of being a complicated man. When asked to describe him, most would say that was a simple, if honorable, Nord that was ever proud of his country and kin. When Jarl Ulfric raised the spark of rebellion into a full fledged war, it had been expected that he join the Stormcloaks and he did so without hesitation. He fought the Imperials, the Thalmor, his own kin wearing imperial armor...whomever stood in the way of Skyrim's freedom, he cut down without a second thought.

And now...now, it seemed, he would pay the ultimate price for his loyalty.

The headsman was not what he would have chosen to be his end, however, men such as himself and his brothers-and-sisters-in-arms that stood by him today were rarely able to pick their own destinies. Tales and legends were reserved for men like Jarl Ulfric, Uriel Septim, Ysgramor, Talos... He would not be amongst such heroes though he did hold out hope that Sovngarde stood at the other side of that bloody axe. To enter the Hall of Valor, to be at peace with his kinsmen...he would be content in such a place.

As he stepped down from the wagon, he sent a silent prayer to Shor to look after his soul this day.

When he faced Hadvar for the first time since this war begun, he saw the sadness in his old friend's eyes...the _regret_...and found a part of him hoping this war would soon end. Honorable in intention it may be, but the civil unrest was taking its toll.

“What is your name?”

The confused, somewhat hostile lilt of Hadvar's voice had him glancing back to see the newest prisoner; a Dunmer whom Ulfric had been glaring at for the last two days, leveling a blank stare at the Nord. Ralof had come to know this expression well, none of his own questions answered as the elf kept his thoughts to himself. Even when the high elves whom had been their 'escort' to Helgen came asking questions, the Dunmer refused to speak. He bore bruises dark enough to blotch even his azure skin and Ralof would hand it to the man, for the Altmer never seemed to get so riled up until someone deigned to ignore them.

When no answer was forthcoming, a frowning Hadvar turned to his Captain. “What should we do? There's nothing about a dark elf on the list.”

“He goes to the block.”

He stared at the Imperial Captain in shock, as did the other Stormcloaks and even Ulfric seemed surprised.

Though clearly not agreeing with such a command, Hadvar didn't argue and instead turned back to the elf who looked on in indifference. “I'm sorry,” he said sincerely, “we'll be sure to return your remains to Morrowind.”

And that comment, as respectful as it was meant to be, was what _finally_ prompted the elf to speak.

He glowered at Hadvar, lip curled up into a sneer as he spat out, “I was born to the ashlands of Vvardenfell, s'wit. The Morrowind of this age is no more my home than it is yours. Burn my carcass for all I care, Nord, for my _home_ no longer exists.”

The Dunmer's voice was a dead giveaway, even if he hadn't revealed his origin. Though all dark elves native to their homeland of Morrowind retained a certain rasp of an accent from their use of Daedric, the Ashlanders of Vvardenfell were known to have the harshest tones. Years of living so near Red Mountain had adapted their lungs to survive in such a land, however, their vocal cords were damaged at a young age as a result.

Hadvar, for his part, stared at the elf, opening his mouth several times to respond but not able to.

“Enough of this,” the Captain snapped, stepping forward to grab the elf by the arm and forcefully drag him to stand beside Ralof and the others. At the elf's sluggish stumble when the woman released him, Ralof finally understood.

 _'Poisoned,'_ he thought, a part of him angry on the elf's behalf. To fall in battle and be captured held a certain dignity that would remain, however, kept controlled only by poison was another thing entirely. Dunmer, by trade, knew a handful of spells naturally and held an affinity for the destruction class...no doubt this elf, given his age considering he would have to be at least a couple centuries old to be from Vvardenfell, would be resisting if he could.

As General Tullius practically gloated in his success at capturing Ulfric Stormcloak, Ralof's attention remained on the elf.

A typical Dunmer by first glance, he was obviously no youngster. His eyes gave him away, even if the deep scarring along his arms and face did not. Weary though aware, he was calm unlike the young horse thief who lied a few feet away with an arrow lodged in his back. He was an inch or two shy of Ralof's height, slim but lean...a hunter, if he were to guess. Hair as black as ebony was loose and tangled with dirt and blood hung limply around his shoulders. A mark was inked over the left side of his face, a sharp narrow design with Daedric runes Ralof had no hope of translating.

As if feeling his gaze, eyes the color of blood turned to regard him.

Ralof held the stare a moment before looking away, focusing once more on the situation at hand.

The priestess they'd brought had begun the last rites, sans Talos of course, but a particularly courageous and difficult soldier within the ranks stepped up, sounding only exasperated as he said, “For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with.”

The woman clenched her teeth, arms falling to her sides in agitation. “As you wish,” she bit out.

When the axe came down, Ralof couldn't help but smile a bit fondly. “As fearless in death, as he was in life.”

Ulfric met his eye a moment at his words before turning back.

As the Imperials dragged his body away, the Captain turned to them once more. “Next, the elf.”

To his credit, the Dunmer hesitated only a moment before stepping forward on his own. When he approached the block, he paused a moment to look at it as well as the executioner before kneeling. The Captain behind him, who'd been poised to shove him to his knees, nearly lost her balance and regained it only at the price of looking the fool.

A snort escaped him and Ralof wasn't even afraid of the glare she shot at him for it.

In the following years, Ralof would never be able to recall in exact detail all that happened next. As the axe lifted, the ground suddenly shook hard enough to knock him off his feet and all he heard was the cry of, _“Dragon!”_ before he was running. He managed to get his hands free somehow and helped Ulfric and the rest free themselves before he went back to help the elf.

Chaos followed them as they ran through Helgen and the tunnels beneath, fighting tooth and nail each step of the way before they were outside in the wilds watching as the black dragon ascended into the heavens.

The journey to Riverwood took most of the day, the sun beginning to set by the time they reached it. The elf surprised him by accepting his invitation to his home, asking the occasional question as Ralof explained what he could about Skyrim and the province's current unrest. When they arrived in Riverwood, he was ecstatic to see his sister, Gerdur, and was thankful for her patience and kind heart when she opened her home to his companion as well despite only knowing that Ralof trusted the mer with his life.

A theory that was put to the test many times over in the single day they'd been free.

 

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The elf readied himself to leave for Whiterun as a favor to Gerdur some time later, exhaustion and the poison in his system not letting him out of bed for several days and even now the elf still looked dead on his feet. He'd gone on an errand to Bleak Falls Barrow as a sort of test, returning the golden claw to the shop keeper and earning a bit of coin in the process. Though clearly able to take care of himself, Ralof helped the elf adorn the leather armor Alvor had given him when he saw the Dunmer struggling with the straps.

“Ironic,” he said, adjusting one of the pauldrons and earning the elf's attention. “I call you a friend to my family, yet I don't even know your name.”

The elf paused in his motions, crimson eyes meeting his as the Dunmer turned to him. After a few moments, something in the mer's posture relaxed and the elf's lips curled in a small smile. “Thorokyne,” he finally answered, his voice harsh but not as hoarse as it had been at Helgen. “My given name is Thorokyne.”

“Well,” he clapped the elf on the shoulder. “Thorokyne, my friend, it is an honor to know you. I owe you more than you realize. Call on me if you have need, and think on my words. You don't have to be a Nord to fight for Skyrim.”

The elf bowed his head. “I shall give you my answer when I have learned more of Skyrim, and the people that call it home.”

“Fair enough,” he conceded with a smile. “Best of luck to you, and may the wind be at your back.”

The elf clapped his shoulder in return, nodding once before taking his leave.

As the door shut, Ralof couldn't help but wonder what would change in Skyrim for there was no doubt in his mind that Thorokyne would throw the entire province into chaos should the fancy strike him.

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**Thorokyne**

**~ End of #1. Name ~**

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	2. #2. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are with the second installment of Thorokyne. I've revamped it a bit so hopefully it will flow a bit easier. Any critique, comments or feedback is welcomed.
> 
> *Anant - comes from the spring (If I'm not as Rusty as I think I am, anyway...)
> 
> Enjoy! ^.^

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  **Thorokyne**

  **~ #2. Family ~**

 

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**\\\ Whiterun, Temple of Kynareth //**

“ _Come to me, Kynareth, for without you, I might not know the mysteries of the world, and so blind and in terror, I might consume and profane the abundance of your beautiful treasures...”_

Danica Pure-Spring was distracted from the apprentices' daily readings at the sound of the temple's main door slamming open, eyes going wide when she saw two guards enter with the familiar, though non-moving, form of Whiterun's newest Thane; a dark elf whom was whispered to be Dragonborn amongst the guard and townsfolk.

There was no hesitation as she stood, ordering the men to place him upon the stone altar so she may have a look at him. “What happened,” she demanded, removing the crude bandage from the elf's eye to see the ugly, jagged gash beneath it.

“Found him on the road a few miles from the gate,” one answered. “Slavers by the look it. From Morrowind would by my guess but there wasn't much left of them.”

No more explanations were needed or wanted as she carefully began assessing her new patient, mindful of the wound to the eye but more concerned for his ruined leg. The muscle was in ribbons, the bones splintered and sticking up through the skin as blood all but poured from it.

 _'Thank Kynareth he's not awake,'_ she thought, arranging what she need to begin tending to the mer.

 

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Later that night found Danica slowly cleaning up the various herbs and tools she'd needed in tending to the Thane, having sent her apprentices to bed hours ago and banishing the guardsmen from the temple though they remained guarding the doors outside. The hour was long past late and the weariness in her very bones had the strong, Nordic woman feeling all her years as she moved sluggishly through the temple, checking in on the few other patients who'd been neglected in their rush to save the elf.

As she looked in on them, she was thankful to note that none seemed to have suffered from the lack of attention.

Taking the items towards the second door, she stacked them beside it to be removed and cleaned on the morrow when the temple came to life again.

As she slowly removed the cowl around her head, she sighed deeply and began readying herself for sleep only to pause in her motion when she suddenly became aware of a sound...a scratching?...against the stone floor of the temple. With a huff, she grabbed a nearby broom and set about looking for the source.

If one of those damned skeevers had gotten in again...

She froze.

There, mostly hidden behind one of the large planters that held various herbs and flowers that supplied the temple's needs, was a tail. A small one, yes, but a tail nonetheless. Every so often, it twitched and the small spikes along the length of it scraped against the ancient urn.

Raising the broom, she crept as quietly as possible towards it and hefted the makeshift weapon even higher when she rounded the pot; ready to smack whatever was hiding behind it.

Only to freeze again...terrified, red eyes meeting confused brown as she stared down at the child.

For it was a child.

An Argonian child.

He was no higher than her hip, if that, and was skin and bones...his skin was pale white in color, an unhealthy tinge to it and various cuts, scrapes and bruises lined his small frame. The red of his bled into what was normally the white in other species, and small spikes lined his tail, back, arms and head before ending with two small horns at his brow that promised to grow with age. Colorless claws lined his hands and feet, his youth showing for they no strength yet and several were broken off.

When he curled further in on himself, lowering his head and eyes to the ground, Danica snapped back to the moment and immediately lowered the broom to lean it against the wall once more. “You gave me a start, child. I didn't hear you enter.”

The small boy retreated a step at her words, using his hands and feet to move as his eyes quickly glanced to the side before snapping back to her. That small glance garnered a swift understanding and she smiled softly, now kneeling in front of the child in hopes of not frightening him further.

“He'll be all right, young one. He only sleeps now.”

The boy didn't retreat any further, though neither did he come to her.

“You could go to him if you wish,” she prompted, her smile widening at the surprise in his face. “Go on now, the night is nearly over and we all should have been asleep hours ago.”

And thus, Danica Pure-Spring was treated to a most unusual sight...an Argonian child clambering up with all the grace of a mudcrab to cuddle against a Dunmer of Vvardenfell. The boy shoved his way under the mer's arm and gripped the plain linen shirt he wore with enough force to rip it should either of them move and rested his head above the elf's heart.

Within moments, the child was asleep.

She was just ready to turn and follow his example when she saw the Dunmer's arm shift to hold the child, her eyes meeting his own tired gaze. His right eye was bandaged, Danica knowing the elf would never regain his sight in it but the mer didn't seem concerned with it or his leg for the moment as he glanced down at the child on his side. A long moment passed before the Dunmer's eye slipped close and he drifted off once more.

 

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And so, life went on in Whiterun in the months that followed and the city flourished under the care of its Jarl and newly appointed Thane, the now infamous Dunmer Dovahkiin whom had somehow won their trust.

Danica had grown to know Thorokyne rather well, glad for the Dunmer's friendship for he was an excellent and refreshingly different point of view when it came to matters of the world or simple neighborhood politics and gossip between the townsfolk. As a mer, he viewed time differently than Nords did and was able to put many things into a perspective that would otherwise be lacking. She could understand now why Balgruuf valued his counsel, and was given new insight as to how Irileth had earned the right to be a Jarl's housecarl.

After that night, when he was able to, Thorokyne returned to the temple to offer his gratitude for her services though all she'd been able to focus on in that moment was the quiet, pale but healthier looking Argonian whom had been hiding behind the mer's legs and peeking out at her warily every so often through their conversation.

When the Ashlander was healed enough to begin walking with a cane, it quickly became a common sight within the walls to see him walking with the pale child at his hop while his ever-loyal housecarl, Lydia, hovered around her Thane and his charge should something threaten either of them.

Thorokyne made daily visits to Dragonsreach during this time, helping Balgruuf often in matters regarding the city and hold as well as giving his input in regards to the civil war that was beginning to darken Whiterun's doorstep.

Inevitably, a few months down the line, it was deemed the mer was healthy to travel once more and Balgruuf asked his a favor of his Thane. After his pilgrimage up the seven thousand steps to High Hrothgar to answer the Greybeards' call, he was to go to Windhelm and deliver a message to Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak.

“I could continue his lessons in reading and restoration mage if Lydia looks after him,” she offered after hearing of his venture. “He seems to have developed a talent for it.”

Thorokyne nodded once, his eyes focused entirely on his sleeping son whom had fallen asleep in front of the fire after their meal. “I would greatly appreciate that. He has become,” the mer paused a moment, his voice harsh as ever but with far more emotion than Danica had ever heard, “very dear to me. I would not part from him if I had the choice.”

“He will be proud to show you what he's learned in your absence when you return,” she offered as a comfort.

“Yes,” he agreed, a small half-smile softening his normally severe expression. “I would take him with me, but the journey through the mountains alone is too dangerous and I won't expose him to the ridicule of Windhelm. My own kind is hated enough, I'd hate to find what they may do to him.”

“Have you thought of a name yet?” Danica asked, changing the topic to something more lighthearted. “You have been very...particular...about finding the right one.”

Thorokyne leveled a mock glare at her, no doubt exasperated from the almost daily question. “Nords do not look upon names as my own kind. Few races do, apart from the mer. But to answer your question, I have. His name shall be Anant.”

“Anant,” she echoed. “It suits him, and I believe he will agree if only because you've given it to him.”

And, for just a moment, the world faded away as Danica watched Thorokyne watch his son – now named Anant – sleep. She felt like something of an outsider as she observed them but made no move to stop. Family, it seemed, was not dictated by blood like the Gray-Manes or Battle-Borns so believed, but simply by love.

And never had she seen a more loving family than right here before her.

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**Thorokyne**

**~ End of #2. Family ~**

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